


The Beginning of the End of the World

by queer_cheer



Series: Life As We Knew It [1]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Other, Pre-Series, Slow Burn, The Man in the High Castle - Freeform, i mean they couldn't have ALWAYS been fascists right?, right now john is Not An Adult so nothing weird is gonna happen YET
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_cheer/pseuds/queer_cheer
Summary: Evil isn't born; it's created. Before John Smith was the hardened, calculating obergruppenführer, he was a poor shoe-shine boy with hopes and visions of something better. Before Helen Smith was the Nazi socialite extraordinaire, she was Helen Russo, the wealthy daughter of a preacher. Before they were the Smiths, they were friends.





	The Beginning of the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassmaster_tiresias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassmaster_tiresias/gifts).



> I love these two Nazi jerks so much more than I, a Jewish boy, should. But alas! With any hope, this'll kinda be a preview to a longer narrative fic I've been working on for awhile and want to eventually post, once I work out all of the plot holes and whatnot. It's part of the series that my lovely friend and I have been writing and emailing each other and crying about, so enjoy! x

Helen had found that there was freedom in being disliked. 

For nearly twenty years, she’d been known as the only daughter of the beloved Father Russo. A good girl. A good, Christian girl. A good, Christian girl with pretty red hair and wide blue eyes that would win the love of a doctor, or a lawyer, or even better: One of those old-money boys with the kind of names you’d see on buildings in New York and D.C. And when, at eighteen, she’d gotten engaged to the twenty-something-year-old son of some high-up corporate big-wig, every woman in Arlington thought she’d struck gold. 

Her parents were elated, of course. What more could Father Russo want for his good, Christian daughter? Remy McNeal, with his golden curls and freckled cheeks, was the good, Christian heartthrob of every high-society girl, and he’d picked her.

He’d picked her in the same way that he would’ve picked his favorite fruit from the produce stand at the market, or his favorite car from the dealership lot. And she never did have much of a say in the matter. No fruit ever chose to be bought, no car driven, and in Helen’s family, no woman ever chose to be married. It was an issue of convenience, status, and prestige, not love. Never love. It didn’t matter if he yanked her into his whiskey-soaked kisses against her will, or if he forbade her from leaving the house in her favorite red dress. He was convenient. He was rich. Helen Isabella McNeal was the kind of name that would look nice on paper, _and really, dear, what else could you ever need in a man?_

Maybe she should’ve broken it off before their wedding day. In retrospect, that might’ve worked better than leaving him standing at the altar in the pouring rain while she, in her ruined white dress, stole her father’s truck and drove until she’d run out of gas halfway to Florida. With nothing to lose and nowhere to go, she had no choice but to return to Virginia and face whatever ignominy awaited her there, and the strangest part was that she wasn’t afraid. In a twisted, inexplicable way, she’d almost looked forward to it.

She never had to explain herself. In the day she’d been gone, her neighbors had already explained it to everyone they knew. Half of Arlington was under the impression that she was in love with another man – a nameless, faceless, and probably tasteless one at that. The other half had gotten the idea into their heads that she was _one of those lavenders, like in New York!_

But hell, she was free. There was no one left to impress. There was no one left to disappoint.

Two years had passed and she, at twenty, was still known as the town’s youngest spinster. When she pushed open the door to the corner store, a rusty bell let out a high-pitched ding. The man at the counter looked up, noticed her, and then looked right back down at the game of solitaire he had set up. 

Knowing the probable outcome, Helen approached him and cleared her throat.

Nothing. Just as she’d expected.

“Hello?” She rapped on the counter. “Two jelly donuts and a copy of today’s paper, please.” 

Silence.

“Aw, hell, throw in a pack of Chesterfields, too.” 

With an annoyed little huff, he looked up and glared at her from behind his gold-framed glasses.

“Can I help you?” 

Helen groaned. “I don’t know, Mister, _can_ you?” 

“No self-respecting man’s going to marry an attitude like that,” He grumbled, grudgingly pulling two donuts from the display, sticking them into a dented little box, and tossing a paper down onto the table. 

“Well, thank God! Don’t forget my cigarettes.”

Irritated, he slapped the pack down against the counter and demanded, “Five dollars.” 

“In today’s world,” She rummaged through her purse for her wallet. “That’s a week’s worth of pay for some people. But you know, some people think the war’s going to save the economy.” 

“I’ve got a job, lady, I don’t give a damn about the economy. Or the war. What Hitler does in Germany is Germany’s problem, not ours.” 

She handed him a five-dollar bill and glared daggers that, if looks could kill, would’ve slit him open.

“Good day, sir.” And by that, she meant _I hope you rot._

She left before she could make out whatever words he grumbled under his breath. She’d noticed a ring on his left hand, and with a pang of sympathy, she wondered if he was a kinder man at home. She sure hoped so. 

“Helen!” 

Right on time.

Helen turned the smile at the only friendly face left in town. 

“Hi, John!” She greeted. “I got us some breakfast, do you have a minute?” 

“For you, my friend, I’ve got five,” John grinned. “You have the paper! Can I see it, please?”

“Oh, yeah,” Helen handed it to him. “I just like it for the cartoons. You can have the rest, if you want.” 

Helen picked the best looking bench – the same bench they’d shared every day for the past year – and sat down. John, beside her, opened the newspaper and read with fascination.

“Have you heard about the Blitz?” 

Helen cocked her head. “The Blitz?” 

“Yeah! German warplanes bombed the hell out of London yesterday. They’re calling it the Blitz, like the word _blitzkrieg_ in German. It means lightening war.” 

“Leave it to the Germans to have a word for something like _lightening war_ ,” Helen shook her head in distaste. “I’m sure glad we live here.” 

“America can’t stay out of the action for forever, Helen,” John turned the page. “It’s only a matter of time, really, until-”

Helen snatched the paper and placed a donut in his newly vacant hands. 

“Enough politics,” She smiled. “You’ve only got three of your five minutes left.” 

“You know, I could probably manage six,” John grinned. “Thank you, by the way.” He held up the donut. “It’s really very kind of you. Someday I’ll pay you back.” 

“Oh, stop with that. I don’t mind. I like our morning talks.” 

“Yeah,” John smiled through a mouthful of jelly. “I do, too.” 

With a fond laugh, Helen figured they must’ve looked like quite the pair: she, in her pink cashmere sweater, and John, with a dirty white shirt and a smear of shoe polish streaked across his cheek. But as far as friends could go, he was probably the best she could hope to have. He had to have been the only kid in Arlington that read the paper and gave a damn about the war, but beyond that, he was the brightest, most clever person she’d ever met. He was walking proof that there were some things school just couldn’t teach.

Not to mention the fact that when she’d decided to tell him about Remy, because he’d long since told her his tragic backstory and it only seemed fair that she opened up too, he became the first person to agree with her that Remington McNeal wasn’t worth the gum on the sole of her shoe.

“So,” She took a bite of her donut. “How’s your mom?” 

John’s shoulders tensed.

“Still the same. Still smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish.” 

Helen’s frown deepened.

“I’m sorry.” 

John shrugged, passive. “It’s okay.” 

“Are you? Okay, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” John nodded too quickly. “I’m fine. You know, it’s not like its anything new. With my brother, you know, and then so soon after, my father and the mine…she’s been different. I can’t really blame her. I can’t imagine how she feels after losing a child.” He shuddered at the cool autumn wind that came through and rustled the changing leaves. “It must feel like the worst thing in the world. Worse than the Blitz. Maybe even worse than the whole war.” 

“Yeah,” With one hand, Helen pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders. With the other, she rubbed a soothing circle along John’s back. 

“You know I’m here if you need to talk.” 

“I know,” John smiled. “How about your dad? Still trying to marry you off?” 

“Of course!” Helen moaned. “What else would he do with me? I told him I want a job and he was mortified.” 

“He’ll come around,” John assured her. “Historically, the world never took well to radical ideas, but it’s always radical ideas that change the world. Change is going to come,” John smiled at the thought. “Things have been the same for too long.” 

“If you think so, it’s probably right.” 

John laughed in the nervous way he always did on the rare occasion that someone complimented him. It was funny, charming, and tragic in perfect unison. 

“Just wishful thinking, really,” He confessed. “I don’t know what the future’s going to be like, but I hope it’s better than this.” His stare fell to the line forming at the soup kitchen’s door. “What kind of world is it where people have to wait hours just to get bread? It’s dehumanizing. And nine times out of ten, they’re all out by the time you get there. They’ll say to come back tomorrow, but there’s an endless amount of tomorrows, and none of them look any brighter than today.” 

Helen pulled out her Chesterfields and offered one to him. Graciously, he accepted.

“You know, John,” She lit the bud. “If you ever need anything-”

“I don’t. I’ve got a job and a kind friend that shares her breakfast with me every morning; I’m lucky. That’s more than most people can ever hope for,” He smiled wistfully at her through a cloud of smoke. “But it’s a matter of principle. No one should go without the basic necessities. Food. Clean water. Shelter. And yet,” He gestured to the breadline and hissed, “God bless America.” 

“It’s really a fault in the system, how some people can just fall through it,” Helen agreed, though who was she to talk on the topic of injustice? She had a house and a car and a family that, despite what it might’ve looked like, loved her dearly. She knew nothing of the heavy, haunting loneliness that stole the light from John’s eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. In some ways she felt like a hypocrite, no matter how earnestly John swore she wasn’t.

“I have to get back to work,” He glanced down at his watch and jolted up. He gave her a quick, tight hug and laughed when her arms tightened around his neck. “Thanks again, Helen.” 

“For the last time, Johnny-” Before she had the chance to tell him to quit being so damn gracious, he’d bolted off, the newspaper sticking out of his back pocket. So much for the cartoons.

Helen sighed and leaned back against the bench. The sky overhead was starting to look like rain, and Helen wondered how long John would work. He had a way of making her love and hate the world at the same time. She loved it because he was part of it, and he was kind and gentle and strange all at once. But then again, she hated it for the same exact reason. The world hadn’t been kind or gentle to her strange young friend. Barely sixteen, and he’d lost everything that most took for granted: The love of his brother. The guidance of his father. The sanity of his mother. And yet, he still smiled brighter than anyone she’d ever met at any fancy ball or formal dinner. Whether that spoke more about him as a person or her not-so-social social circle, she wasn’t sure, but either way, it somehow didn’t seem fair.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep and eye out for more of Laura's fics in the series! If Bobward feels are your thing, you're in for a delight. If you're like me and John Smith is your guilty pleasure, buckle up.


End file.
